They say you are supposed to miss them in the late hours of the night when everyone is asleep but you, and the thoughts of them come seeping into your mind like oil, tarnishing every good feeling you could cling to.
But missing you was at 8am in the kitchen, the sunlight pouring in through the window as I’m reaching for the Earl Grey tea bags you left here and I figure I should use them up even though I never really used to drink it before. Missing you hits me as the first wave of the floral taste hits my senses and for some reason I can never manage to finish a full cup.
They say that you miss them after one too many drinks and you can’t quite suppress the emotions you’ve been doing so well lately to steer clear of, and all at once you don’t understand how this could have happened to you.
But missing you was sober dead at noon on a wednesday on the underground central line when my heart jumped into my throat and my hairs stood on end as I mistook someone else for you, and I come to the realisation that since you left I look for you in everyone.
They say you are supposed to miss them when you see them at the same party or run into them in the street. When you don’t expect to see them and everything you practiced in your head for weeks that you would do and say for this very moment is forgotten and in its place a wave of nausea manifests in your stomach as you remain calm and collected on the outside whilst your insides are chaos.
But missing you was at 6pm getting off of the 188 bus towards North Greenwich, and walking the same dusty pavement to my house, and as I walked past the pub we used to spend our weekends at I still hoped to see you sat on the old wooden bench outside with a lit cigarette and wearing the same rolled up hat, waiting for me to pour myself into you.
Missing you was everything they said and everything they did not.
